


No Glass Bottles

by MissViolet



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-20
Updated: 2010-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissViolet/pseuds/MissViolet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson convinces House to spend their day off at the Jersey Shore and things heat up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Glass Bottles

Wilson taps the horn twice, impatient because it's rush hour and he's double-parked in front of House's apartment. He pulls out his cell phone to call him just as House appears on the doorstep, wearing cut-off jeans, clutching a backpack, and fumbling with keys and cane as he locks the door.

"You don't have to honk. I was coming," House says irritably, tossing his backpack into the back of Wilson's Volvo.

"And here you are," Wilson mildly, choosing to disregard the crankiness. House hates early morning, especially on his days off. But they are going to the Jersey Shore, so Wilson is cheerful. He pulls into a Starbucks just before they reach the Turnpike. He knows just the way House drinks his coffee, a little dash of milk. The road isn't especially picturesque. They listen to the oldies station and sip their coffee in easy silence as Wilson drives.

"Do you have trunks?" Wilson asks, after they've both drank enough coffee to allow for civilized conversation.

"Trunks? What the hell are you talking about?" House asks.

"Swim trunks." Wilson pats his own legs, clad in a nylon light-blue knee length swimsuit.

"Oh. I haven't heard anyone under 70 call them that. No, I'll swim in these," says House, pointing to his cutoffs.

Wilson reaches into the back seat and pulls a brand-new swimsuit from his bag. It's black with garish red flames licking up the sides of each leg. He tosses it into House's lap.

"Did you buy this for me?" asks House, examining the swimsuit dubiously.

"No," Wilson lies. "It was a gift from my mother. But I thought of you when I saw it." In fact Wilson purchased it at Macy's only a few days ago, right after House agreed to take a day off and accompany Wilson to the shore.

"Probably too small in the crotch," says House.

"You wish," says Wilson, grinning. House slides his cutoffs down to his ankles. Wilson cannot resist copping a peek.

"Eyes on the road," says House. "I don't wanna die with my pants off. Plainsboro is still the closest ER, and we'd have a lot of explaining to do." He struggles into the flame swimsuit, rips off the tag, and tosses it and his cutoffs into the back.

"So when was the last time you swam at the beach?" Wilson asks, though he has a pretty good idea.

"Oh, well, let's see. Stacy and I went to Fire Island, guess that was the late 90s."

Wilson, unsurprised, says _hm_, but doesn't offer further comment. He knows that the beach isn't an environment that suits House, with the uneven sand and the strong waves of the Atlantic a challenge for his bum leg, not to mention happy screaming children and the general atmosphere of family fun. But it's a weekday; the beach will be quiet, and Wilson wants to relax.

The parking lot at Sandy Hook State Park is nearly empty. Wilson pays the lot fee and parks as close as he can to the beach. House gets out of the car, stretches, looks out to the shore. Wilson slings House's backpack over his shoulder, loads himself with the soft cooler and his gym bag, packed with towels and dry clothing and a sheet for them to lie upon.

The sand is hard for House. His feet slide, and he has to plant his cane deeply to get enough support. Wilson, weighed down with their belongings, is glad to walk slowly.

"How about right here?" asks House, after they've walked a few feet.

"Too close to the pavement. C'mon, let's walk a little further." Wilson feels a flash of guilt at making House keep going, but he wants to hear the sound of the surf. The beach is nearly deserted; just a few older couples, retirement-age, and a handful of young people, but no kids and families; it's a school day.

They make their way towards the surf, until finally Wilson decides they are close enough, and drops their belongings into the sand. He spreads the sheet as best he can; House makes no move to assist, but he does plant the cooler on one corner to anchor it before dropping his cane and settling himself upon it, face turned towards the sea.

"This is nice," he says cautiously, looking out at the waves breaking against the shore.

"Aren't you glad I suggested this?" asks Wilson brightly, perhaps a bit too brightly because House looks at him archly and does not reply.

It's hot; Wilson takes off his tee shirt, and House notes his paleness even as he looks with pleasure upon Wilson's physique. It's nothing special, he's certainly not ripped, just a regular-looking guy approaching middle age. But House likes to look at him, to remember that he can touch him, anytime he wants to, he can reach over and touch him and that's alright with both of them; quite good, in fact.

Wilson uncaps a bottle of sunscreen and starts to slather himself with it. He rubs it all over his neck and shoulders, meticulously smearing it over every inch of himself, even the tops of his feet.

"Can you put some on my back?" he says, handing House the bottle and turning around. House squirts a blob of sunscreen between Wilson's shoulders, rubs it into his skin in slow circles. He pours some into his hand and slides it all over Wilson's lower back, his ribcage, over his shoulder blades. It feels good to touch him, and he takes his time, enjoying the feel of muscle under his palm. Wilson hangs his head, sighing with unmistakable contentment. He likes this, too, the easy sense of touch that has flowed into their friendship, and the promise that it brings. When House has finally finished his meticulous application, they are both thinking of the evening, and what will surely occur the moment they are alone.

"Want to do me?" House whispers into Wilson's ear, pressing the bottle into his hand, touching his fingers lightly to ensure his meaning is clear. Wilson turns around and House removes his tee shirt. His skin isn't sensitive; he tans easily and could even go without sunscreen, but he wants to feel Wilson's hands across his body. It's soothing, the long strokes across his back and neck. House hangs his head, relaxing under the touch. It's nice, this easy companionship, familiar, but strange and thrilling. Wilson's fingers slide down low, rubbing the sunscreen into his hip bones, playfully dipping his fingers under the waistband of his shorts. When he's finished applying the sunscreen, they are both oily. Wilson puts the bottle down, leans close to House, feeling House's skin slippery against his own. He plants a kiss on the back of House's neck.

They lay on their stomachs, inches apart. The sound of the waves is soothing; the sand is warm and in the bright sun, House looks hazy and beautiful. Wilson studies him; House gazes back without artifice. Soon he lowers his eyelids, drifts off to a half-sleep. Wilson continues to watch him, the rise and fall of his back. He has an uncontrollable urge to reach out and stroke his hair, but he does not want to disturb him, or embarrass himself.

The sun climbs higher, and the day starts to get hot. House, sweating, murmurs sleepily and turns to his side. He opens his eyes and looks at Wilson, who is lying on his back, staring at the clouds.

"What's in the cooler?" he asks hopefully.

"Food. Want some?" Wilson sits up and begins to unpack the cooler. He's brought chicken-salad sandwiches, apples, and cheese. There's a bag of potato chips and another one of lemon shortbread, and a few bottles of water. He offers a bottle to House, who waves it away and digs around in his own knapsack. He extracts a bundle of wadded-up newspaper and unpeels it. Underneath is a bag of frozen peas.

"Peas?" asks Wilson curiously. There's something familiar about the green-and-white bag. "Did I buy those?"

"Guess so. They've been sitting in my freezer since you left."

"You're eating frozen peas for lunch?"

House gives Wilson a withering look. He slides off the bag of peas to reveal a can of Heineken. "It's just to keep it cold." He pulls out another wad of newspapers; inside is a bag of frozen corn and another can, which he hands to Wilson.

"Are we allowed to drink here?" Wilson asks.

"It's a state park. Alcohol is not forbidden," says House smugly. "No glass bottles, though." They drink the beers and eat their chicken-salad sandwiches in companionable silence. Wilson lets House eat most of the potato chips. He's trying to avoid that ten pounds he tends to pack on when he's stressed or living too well. And eating dinner with House a few nights a week, he's been cooking his most impressive dishes, rich with cream and butter, all kinds of delicious meals that House likes best, and watching House eat enthusiastically gives him a secret pleasure.

Wilson wads up the newspapers and plastic baggies and stuffs them back into the cooler. There's no garbage can in sight, which makes the beach more pristine and unspoiled in appearance. He puts the corn and peas back in the cooler, too. Maybe he'll use them in a shepherd's pie tonight.

House settles next to him, and Wilson is always surprised by this secret, affectionate side of him. House is so abrasive, his words can cut painfully when he wants them to. Only Wilson knows that House is privately a pussycat who likes to curl up next to Wilson on the sofa while they watch television, who even likes to cuddle up in bed together on rainy mornings.

House is so close to him, all he has to do is stretch his arm out, curl it around his shoulders, and they are nestled together, quite cozy. Wilson feels a warmth filling his whole body, the pure unadulterated delight of House's company; they love each other, that much is clear.

He's still thinking happily of how close they have become, but soon his mind drifts, and without meaning to, he falls asleep. House sleeps next to him, the steady rise and fall of his shoulders corresponding to Wilson's breathing. They nap for nearly an hour, soothed by the sound of the breaking surf and the sea-birds crying in the distance. The sun climbs higher in the sky, it's hot, and House suddenly wakes up, sweating. Wilson wakes up instantly.

"What time is it?" he asks groggily.

"About two," says House.

Wilson sits up, stretches his arms. He's sweaty and sandy and wants to cool off.

"Wanna swim?" he asks House

"Okay," House answers, but his voice is uncertain. Wilson knows he's afraid, but he won't confront him about it until he has to. They stand up and walk towards the water. It's is difficult going for House on the uneven sand; Wilson offers his arm until they reach the wet packed sand of the shore.

"Go in deeper, it'll be easier to stand," he says, and wades until he's waist-deep. House follows tentatively, lingering in the midst of the breaking waves, looking unsteady and a little panicked.

"I won't let you drown," says Wilson calmly, not making a big deal about it, just mentioning it.

He swims back to House, stands close to him and takes his hand. Together they walk past the rough surf until the waves are only a gentle sway.

"You are so getting off on the caretaker thing," says House, dropping his hand.

"You can float, at least. C'mon, I want you to have some fun." Wilson swims circles around House, splashing him with his feet. "C'mon, House," he says, feeling playful. He takes House's hand again and swims, tugging him. House swims after him, tentatively, then he discovers that swimming didn't take much effort at all and isn't too bad, really. Better than walking.

"See? Fun, right?" says Wilson.

"It's alright," says House, but he grins as he floats on his stomach, letting the waves buffet him.

"This will be good for your leg, too," says Wilson. "You should be swimming in the therapy pool."

House makes a sour face. "I like this better." The salty water lifts him easily, and floating is a breeze. He splashes Wilson playfully. Wilson splashes back, and a water-fight ensues. House is a surprisingly good swimmer. He used to do this, before his infarction. He's pleased that, unlike running and tennis, he can still swim as well as he ever did. Wilson looks at him slyly; he knows that House is delighted and that he'll never admit it, but he's grateful Wilson brought him to the beach.

House swims lazily back and forth, parallel to the shore. Wilson swims closer to the shore, letting the waves toss him about. The sea is lovely and cool; he can see schools of tiny minnows swimming past, and the water is so clean, he can see right down to his feet. Wilson relaxes, lets the waves carry him to and fro.

He doesn't want House to over-tax himself; swimming in the ocean, though relaxing, can also be exhausting. After a half-hour, he tells House he wants to go in.

"But mom, I just got here!" House complains.

"We can come back. Let's rest awhile."

House agrees; he doesn't really want to stay in. He's getting tired, but not willing to admit it and Wilson allows an easy excuse. They walk back to their blanket, towel off, but they're both still damp as they lay back down.

House is mischievous; he lies close to Wilson, draping his leg over Wilson's calf. Wilson can feel the length of him, pressed close. Their faces are only inches apart. Wilson thinks for a heart-pounding moment, that House is going to lean over and kiss him, but he just licks his salty lips and half-closes his eyes. His foot strokes Wilson's calf, slowly, teasingly.

"Got plans tonight?" House whispers softly.

"No..oh!" Wilson's reply is interrupted by House's arm around his waist, then slipping lower, caressing his ass.

"Then you'll come to my place. Maybe sleep over?" says House hopefully.

"Yes," Wilson breathes. House continues to caress him, his ass, his thighs, and all the while one foot is stroking his lower leg. His touch sends a thrill through Wilson's body; he feels himself flushing, that tight, hot feeling that House is stirring up inside him. When House touches his face, he seizes his wrist with a small moan, and kisses him urgently. House is measured, calculating, but Wilson is fast, sloppy, his tongue pushes apart House's lips, and he climbs on top of him, shuddering as he feels the length of House's body pressed against his own.

"You'll get us arrested for public lewdness," says House, and he's laughing, breathless, because Wilson is on top of him.

"Let's go," says Wilson roughly. He stands up suddenly, starts collecting their things.

"Hi-ho, Silver," says House, because Wilson is in such a hurry. It feels like forever until they get back to the car, until Wilson can press House against the driver's side door, and kiss him properly. He feels the hot spark of knowing House is his to touch. He kisses passionately. Wet, sandy, oily with sunscreen, they make out against the car, long minutes in which Wilson feels his breath slip away. House presses his bare chest against him, wet fabric of their swimsuits sliding together. His heart races as House rocks into him.

House slides his hand up, gently over his nipple. Wilson can't stop a moan. "Let's get in," he says roughly. He yanks open the door, slides himself inside. It seems to take a year for House to limp around the hood and ease himself into the car. Wilson puts the keys into the ignition, but House covers his hand. "You're not going anywhere," he says. The second kiss is even sweeter for the waiting, and this time, Wilson moans freely. House's hand is in his lap, fingers slipping under his waistband.

"That's right, touch me," he whispers urgently, and cants his hips so House can slip his shorts down a little. Just enough to get his hand around his cock. House's kiss grows sloppy as his hand tightens. Wilson is instantly hard, breathless. The console is between them, and House is trying to sling himself over it. "Damn this thing," he says, trying to get closer. Wilson tells him _never mind_; he's got one hand wrapped around the back of his neck, pulling him close. Their kiss is luscious, long and sweet, and House jerks him slowly, making Wilson groan, mouth gaping, his body thrumming with mounting pleasure.

He hears a crunch of tires on gravel. It's the state trooper, driving towards them. Wilson struggles to untangle himself from House, but House clings to him closer. The trooper is approaching fast; Wilson tries to push House away, but House is ardent, he squeezes Wilson's cock harder. Wilson gasps as the trooper pulls in front of their car. Maybe he'll have his eyes straight ahead, Wilson thinks, but as he drives past, the trooper looks right at them, mouth gaping in surprise at the sight of him trying to push House away, while House insistently fumbles around in his lap. As he drives past, he flicks his headlights on and off a few times.

"We've got to get out of here," says Wilson, panicked. "That's his signal to us to knock it off."

"Don't be silly, he doesn't care. And since when are you so knowledgeable about secret police codes?"

But Wilson doesn't listen to House. He starts the car and drives out of the parking lot, still panting from their amorous struggle. He's stiff in his shorts and doesn't feel much like driving, but getting arrested for indecent exposure isn't on his agenda, either.

House doesn't make it any easier, talking dirty as Wilson drives. "Aw, that's a shame. I was just getting to the good part," says House, looking at Wilson mischievously. "The nice long back-and-forth strokes you like so much. And I was going to tickle your balls. I know how you love that. You were starting to get wet, your cock must have been aching to come."

"Shut up," Wilson mutters irritably. He's tense, frustrated, and wants to pull over right then and there and make House suck him, pull his hair and force his swollen cock deep down his throat. Suddenly he remembers a place from his teenage years; with any luck, it's still open. He turns the car abruptly.

"I know a place," he says to House. It's not too far off; he can see the sign high above the housing developments. In five minutes, they are there; Wilson pulls in and asks the surly teenager at the booth how much.

"Ten dollars a car," he says, putting down a magazine. "But the movie's half-over."

"Doesn't matter," says Wilson, handing over some cash.

"The drive-in?" asks House, unbelieving. "I didn't know any still existed."

"I think this is one of the last," says Wilson. They drive closer to the screen. There are a handful of cars, so it's easy to find a quiet place in the rear, with a good distance between them and everyone else. The air smells like popcorn, marijuana, and stale beer.

"Everyone here is stoned, drunk, or fucking," says House delightedly. "I don't think any of them are watching... King Kong? God, this is like two years old."

"You won't be watching the movie," says Wilson. He cuts the engine. He waits expectantly, pulse quickened, for it's never slowed, not since House first kissed him in the parking lot.

"Get in the back," House orders him. Wilson looks out the window cautiously. There are few cars, parked far apart, but close enough to hear a door opening.

"Someone might see," says Wilson uncertainly. House twists in his seat, pitches himself into the back clumsily. His legs are draped over the console.

"You're going to hurt yourself," says Wilson, unsurprised at House's antics.

"It's worth it. Come on." House finally got his legs to follow and reclines in the back seat, looking at Wilson seductively through half-lidded eyes.

Wilson presses the button to lower his seat as much as possible before sliding himself into the back seat with far less effort than House's dive. He slides close to him, their legs entwined, and immediately his pulse races, just as it did during the intense make-out session that began at the beach. Only better, because there's no console between them, and with a little sigh of pleasurable anticipation, Wilson slides his leg over House's; facing him, there's just enough room for them to get close enough to rub his erection against House's groin.

"Oh," says House quietly, with such restrained passion that Wilson wants to grind into him, make him cry out. He's already hard as a rock, and House's hot body beneath him enflames his senses.

They kiss deeply, House pants with measured breaths, Wilson, losing control, groans every few moments with anticipation, the desire, the pleasure of House so willing beneath him. He slides his hands under House's tee-shirt, feeling his hard muscles, the points of his nipples. House is highly responsive; he trembles under the caress, lips parting on a moan when Wilson pinches the sensitive little points.

He removes House's shirt, tosses it aside. His hands find the flat planes of his belly, and he lightly strokes it, and lets his fingers wander down further. House's cock strains through his damp bathing suit. Wilson trails his finger over his half-erect length, rubbing it thoughtfully, feeling it harden beneath his touch.

"Oh-ho," says House.

Wilson teases his prick through the silky fabric, making it stiffen, watching House's body react to the stimulation. His face flushes, eyes are half-closed, his legs tense rhythmically. House parts his lips, Wilson bends to kiss him, and as they kiss, he slips down House's bathing suit, and then his own, and then their bare pricks are sliding together, and damn, but it's good, to thrust his already-slick cock into House's stiff one, hard muscles trembling beneath him, both of them panting, gaping desperate kisses, soft little cries of pleasure and mutual anticipation.

House's hand finds his cock once again, and he slides up his trunks so he can finger him through the damp fabric. The renewed contact thrills his senses. The wet fabric is a tease; House rubs his whole palm over his throbbing cock, and Wilson groans ecstatically. Their bodies are pressed together, every inch. Wilson yanks his shorts down again; he can't take the teasing, the anticipation is killing him. He grinds their cocks together, and it feels so good, he can't stifle a lustful moan.

"I'm going to fuck you," he says breathlessly, hardly aware of his own bawdy words.

"Right now?" asks House, and he's trying to be cool, but his voice shakes.

"Yes," moans Wilson, head buried in House's neck. He feels the sand on their bellies as they rock together; it chafes raw, and hurts a little, making it hotter, sharper. His tongue plunges House's mouth; kissing him is exquisite; it sends a thrill from his spine to his balls; their intense, sexual, teasing kiss. Wilson groans, digs his fingers into House's thigh.

"I don't think so. I think you'll spill over in the next two minutes," says House playfully. He slides his hand under Wilson's bathing suit, slipping it inside from the rear, caressing his ass. He lightly tickles Wilson's balls, the base of his prick. His fingers sneak around to the swollen head, he tickles the moist slit, and rubs the sweet spot just beneath it.

"You fucking tease," Wilson gasps out. House's finger slides around again to his ass, presses gently just behind the balls, and Wilson feels a hot spark, a flash of discomfort, pain, and pleasure mixed. It's awkward but when House rubs him again, his body shudders. And then, oh, God, House's finger slips into his ass, going deep, he's inside. Wilson cries out softly, because it's strange, foreign, but soon House finds that sweet spot and rubs it gently. Wilson feels an incredible warmth deep in his body. His ass clenches around House's finger, hips thrust uncontrollably, and their slickened cocks are forced together. "Yeah," breathes Wilson, thrusting his cock forward, feeling House's body shaking with lust, and as he rocks back, House's finger plunges deeper into his ass, hitting the sensitive little spot, sometimes a little too hard or soft, but nearly always just right, making Wilson grit his teeth, and squirm, and cry out all kinds of lewd nonsense, as House plunges his finger, working him up to a frenzy.

"God, yes, fuck me," Wilson cries out, thighs trembling. Wilson kisses violently, he bites House's lips, fingers tearing at his hair, it feels so good, the spreading warmth deep in his loins, the sweet ache in his balls, the fiery pleasure in his throbbing cock. House fingers him rhythmically, stirring Wilson's passion to the breaking point. Then he takes his cock in his other hand, stroking him. Bucking forward, Wilson pushes his stiffened prick into House's tight grasp; when he sinks back, he drives House's finger deeper into his twitching hole. Ah, it's ecstasy, the agonizing stabs of pleasure deep in his ass, his stiff, aching prick, the delicious heat spreading down to his thighs. He rocks into House, ass clenching each time their bodies meet. His cock throbs; he feels the lust in his teeth and bones.

"You sweet fucksome little tart," says House in a ragged whisper, relishing Wilson's answering groan. House is also feeling the heat, the sheer physical joy of spurring Wilson on with his naughty words. Wilson leans down, finds House's warm lips, and kisses him deeply. The car windows are fogged up; the interior smells of salt, sweat, and sex. Wilson thrusts so hard; he's actually rocking the chassis a little. He cries out, louder than he had intended, but he can't stop himself; the stimulation is too much. He thrusts his cock into House's tightened hand with a shameless moan. Wilson swears violently as a shiver of delight rips through his body. His ass tightens and clenches around House's finger as his climax sweeps over him.

"Oh...oh..fucking do it to me!" he says helplessly. He's reached the crisis point; his muscles tense and release, tense and release, as his hot come splashes onto House's belly. What exquisite pleasure to come in his best friend's arms, spurred on by House's softly murmured words of encouragement! He comes and comes, his ass tightens and clenches around House's finger, and House continues to work it in and out of his twitching hole, soothingly stroking his most sensitive spot, making his cock jerk and spend. Just when he thinks he can't come any harder, any longer, House makes his finger jump and throb; Wilson's cock jets, and he groans in an agony of lustful culmination.

"Aw, too bad it's over," says House in breathy voice. "I wanted to suck you off." House's crude words sent a final pang of pleasure through Wilson's body. He can't take any more; at the same time, he wants to wring every last drop of sensation out of the experience. He shudders, he jerks his bottom up and down on House's probing finger, again and again, until the last waves of pleasure wash over him, and he finally feels a deep, intense satisfaction.

"Ohh, House," he says, panting with the sweet release. "You made me come so hard." His cock is still half-erect; messy with come, and it's splashed all over House's belly. Wilson rubs himself up against House's rigid prick, enjoying the messy, damp feeling.

"It's easy. You go off like a firecracker, Wilson." House eases his finger out, feeling with pleasure the luscious little post-climax shiver in Wilson's still-shuddering body. Wilson is looking down at him intently, his face flushed scarlet, his hair damp. He's got a wicked grin; his eyes gleam with intent.

"I'm going to do you now," Wilson loves these moments when he's composed and satisfied, and House is still tight and expectant, vulnerable. He expects a little resistance, but House is soft and yielding in his arms. Still, he claims him, biting his lips a little, yanking his shorts down further so their cocks jut together, House's hard prick poking against his softened, slippery one, smearing his come between their bellies. He's kissing hard and aggressive, and House is compliant, panting, lifting his lips to meet him.

"Yeah, you're ready for this," says Wilson, his voice calm. He slips his hand between their bodies, finds House's stiff jutting cock, gives it a fond squeeze. "You liked watching me come, didn't you?"

"Yes," murmurs House.

"Made you stiff, didn't it?" Wilson strokes House's cock lovingly, he presses it against his come-drenched stomach, sliding it against his slickened body until House's prick is as wet as his own.

"Yes, I'm so hard for you," whispers House. He loves to talk dirty, to be teased with words. Wilson jerks him slowly, his hand slipping through the wetness of his own come, soft sucking noises adding to House's groans to create a pornographic chorus. It's exciting; if he hadn't come so hard, he'd be ready to go again, watching House's eyes close in pleasure, the way his hips tilt forward to thrust his rock-hard prick into Wilson's tight grasp.

"Mmm... yes..." House urges him on. Wilson loves to watch House in the throes of pleasure. He's so expressive, so explicit in his appreciation. Very soon he'll start to plead, then he's swear violently in lewd, uncontrollable excitement, and then, the best part, the moaning and thrashing, the sweet agony of release. Indeed House is approaching his peak, and his fingers are digging into Wilson's hips, it's almost painful, if it wasn't so lovely to watch.

"Please, a little faster," pants House, and Wilson is mischievous, he slows down, just to hear his gasps and frustrated sighs. He jerks House tightly, drawing out each stroke, lingering fondly on the swollen head, palming it, twisting his hand, before sliding back down again to the base. He tickles House's balls, cups them, feeling how heavy they are in his hands. House cries out with abandon, he's so close, and damn it, Wilson is teasing his throbbing, aching cock, laughing softly as House groans and begs.

"Fuck, I'm coming!" he moans, but Wilson keeps him hovering right on the edge. "Damn you," whispers House, and Wilson is slow, but steady. House groans, liking the anticipation Wilson is building up inside him. He feels a deep-seated thrill, starting somewhere behind his balls. His body shakes, he's making uncontrollable noises of pleasure, pleading with half-formed words. With a flick of his wrist, Wilson takes him to the peak, and with a short sob, House starts to come. His balls tighten and draw up, his cock throbs and pulses. Wilson jerks him long and slow, making his climax last and last. House moans obscenities, he pants and gasps out his pleasure, he says, _Jimmy, goddamn...cocktease_. Wilson lovingly squeezes out jet after jet of white-hot come, and House shudders and pants and arches his back to thrust his spurting, aching cock into Wilson's hand. It feels so good, he's actually whimpering with delight, thrusting his hips to force his quivering prick into Wilson's tight welcoming fist. Wilson finishes him off with a long, hard squeeze, right below the head of his cock, forcing out the last few drops. He's come hard, his pleasure is complete, but he can't stop thrusting his hips, and Wilson continues to stroke his half-rigid cock, gently, enjoying House's helpless little cries as the waves of climax course through his body. He bends down for a long sweet kiss, pushing his tongue into House's tired lips, forcing them open. Their bellies are sodden, House is still a little hard, and Wilson's half-erect, too, thrilled by House's beautiful climax which created a spark of renewed lust in his body.

They kiss tenderly, House's lips move wearily, but Wilson is eager and almost ready to go again. Their tongues twine, Wilson is grows more forceful, and House is still moaning with the pleasantly sweet ache of his orgasm. The last waves of pleasure ripple through his body; it feels good to rub his sopping-wet prick against Wilson's drenched belly, feeling their cocks slipping and mixing together, and every so often his body shudders and he groans softly.

Finally the last pangs of pleasure subside. With a long, low groan, House pushes Wilson's lips away, and Wilson understands; it's too much, House is wrung-out and his body is highly sensitive. Even a gentle kiss is over-stimulation. So Wilson climbs off him and they sit side-by-side in the back seat, and House puts a hand on Wilson's damp thigh, as he always does, and strokes it fondly. He leans his head against Wilson's shoulder.

Wilson opens the window, and the cool night air is refreshing on their sweaty bodies. "God, we both came buckets," says Wilson, but secretly he loves the damp, moist, sliding feeling of his wet cock against his swim trunks, the slippery fabric clinging to his half-hard prick.

"Mmm, a hell of a hand job," says House wearily. His eyes are closed.

"And you, with your finger up my ass, Jesus, I thought I was going to hyperventilate, felt so good." Wilson flushes, thinking of that secret, down-deep feeling of House's clever little finger stretching him out, stroking his sweet spot, making his muscles clench and his cock throb.

"Mmm-hmmm," says House contentedly. He's pleasantly exhausted, and uninterested in post-game analysis. "I'm hungry. Want to stop at the clam shack on the way home?"

"Looking like this?" asks Wilson, gesturing towards his sodden midsection.

"We could go to the drive-through, sit at a back table. No-one would notice."

"All right," says Wilson. House reaches to open the back door, yanks it up and limps over the front seat. Wilson follows; all concern about what the other moviegoers might think is gone. He puts the key in the ignition but does not turn it. He looks at House, relaxed and carefree, as he always is after a hard climax.

"I meant what I said," he says sternly.

"What's that?" House asks.

"I'm going to fuck you tonight," he says, and his face is flushed with embarrassment at his provocative words.

"Yeah?" says House curiously, and Wilson is glad to notice that he's blushing too.

"Yeah, all night," says Wilson in a low, suggestive voice. "Till you scream."

"Right, sounds good," says House casually, but Wilson sees that he's playing it cool, he's a little unnerved, and this sends a hot rush of anticipation through Wilson's body. He's already imagining his throbbing cock in House's tight virgin hole, stretching him out, the way he'll gasp and sigh and beg for it in a breathy, broken voice. Briefly he wonders at his unquenchable lust for House; sometimes they stay in bed all day, sucking, licking, fingering each other to multiple climaxes, until they are both sobbing with release, begging each other to stop. He's never felt this kind of fiery passion with anyone, the craving for House's body that drives him to lustful excesses. It's not friendship, it's definitely love, but Wilson has loved before, and not like this. Whatever it is, he can't get enough of it. He starts the ignition and takes House's left hand in his right.

"Tonight," he promises House.

"Tonight," House agrees, and then they drive.


End file.
